'Amr ibn Sallam's sandals crunched in the dead of night as he pulled his cloth gown tighter on his body against the biting breeze. He wove his way through the darkness of Madinah, marveling at how the city was almost entirely bereft of any torchlight.

It was amazing how Allah could command thousands of bodies all at once to just...drift off to sleep. All at the same time.

Glory be unto the Living, the one who never sleeps.

But that night, 'Amr would not be among those who slumbered.

And neither would Hanthalah's wife. The adulteress.

'Amr had seen much in his short life. He had gripped the hilts of blades and sliced through the armor of Roman and Arab alike. He had seen the dead sprawled in the battlefield, the dying writhing uselessly.

Yet, all these atrocities had not desensitized him to the reality of death. To the sanctity of life.

What he was about to do now shamed him. It as his responsibility to keep order in these streets. He had once puffed his chest with pride that none other than 'Ali, beloved of Allah and Prophet, had recommended him for the duty to join the policing body of Madinah. To harry run-away criminals, to bring those sentenced by the Khalifa to justice.

'Amr fought back tears as he approached the guarded shed. The only one in sight with torchlight spilling out onto the streets. What he was about to do...it would leave a mark on his soul forever. A blight on his conscience. It would compromise his honor, the moral code he held so close to heart.

Yet...his compassion for this woman was hindering his ability to enforce the law. She ought to be stoned. Hanthalah had easily found four witnesses who saw his wife's crime with 'Abd al-Rahman.

Mundhir, the Nubian, and two fellows 'Amr had never seen before. A small voice in the back of his head whispered venom that Hanthalah had hired them or bribed them to provide false witness.

No, 'Amr shook his head. God had decreed this harsh punishment for adultery to consolidate peace in the lands. But since it was such a harsh penalty, the requirements needed to be perfect as to ensure the validity of the claim. Four witnesses. Surely God would not allow any of them to lie through their teeth. Surely, he would send a sign to show the evil in their hearts and save Zaynab's life.

So far, though, no divine sign was visible. None of the witnesses were struck down by lightning or had their tongues paralyzed or anything.

She ought to be stoned, 'Amr thought.

But...

'Amr should as well.

This woman, this Zaynab wife of Hanthalah, had suffered a great deal in her life. 'Amr could not imagine how it must have felt like to have your entire world torn away from you at such a young age, exchanged for one of unimaginable horrors and demeaning servitude.

It was law to have her stoned. She was a Muslim wed who enjoyed an extramarital affair. It was only just.

But every time 'Amr heard someone reduce her down to this one act of misguidance...every time he heard them speak so flippantly about her life, their words so full of enmity and venom for a woman they had never met...

It seemed as though they were speaking of him.

Sinning again does not relinquish the first sin you are seeking to erase, a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him. It only compounds your misery in the hereafter.

'Amr grunted as the two men at the door recognized him. He was disgusted with them that they agreed to go with this, to forsake their honor and their god in favor for a few coins.

But most of all, he was beyond disgusted with himself. First, he committed the gravest of all sins, one he doubted Allah would forgive him for.

And now this.

The door to the shed creaked open and they were met with a sobbing woman, whispering to her god on her knees. 'Amr craned his neck to look at the position of the moon in the sky. It was well past the time for night prayers, and not yet for dawn. He decided not to question a woman who sought to speak to her creator in what she perceived as the final moments of her life. After all, she was set to be executed come morning.

'Amr extended his arms to his side to prevent the men from interfering with Zaynab's moment of spirituality. He would let her finish first.

His heart ached as he saw her sobbing intensify. He heard the clicking of a tongue behind him and the stomping of a camel's hoof on sand. Her exit from the city was here.

Zaynab concluded her prayer by twisting her head to the right in order to say farewell to the angel on that shoulder, then again to the one on her left.

Her deep piety inspired 'Amr, shook him to his core. His skin pricked with goosebumps in silent admiration.

I wish I was like her. God forgive me.

She looked up at him then. He expected to find a helpless plea in her eyes.

He expected a silent request for clemency.

But he only found resilience. Resolve. This was a woman stronger than any he had ever seen before. One that steeled herself with her faith. One that knew her guardian was the one who created her.

Her prison was her ascetism. Her death was her martyrdom. Her life, her journey of prayer.

If 'Amr had not found the female body utterly charmless, he would have wed her in an instant.

"It is time for you to go," he informed her in a tight voice against the lump forming in his chest.

God forgive me.

Zaynab raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Wear your niqab," he advised her. "It would not be wise for anyone to recognize you as you flee the city."